


Beneath It All

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Accidental Underwear Theft, F/F, Female Solo, Guilty Pleasures, Masturbation, Panty Kink, Panty Sniffing, Pining, Scent Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Underwear Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: Marianne allows herself to indulge in a fantasy, and in a moment of panic, finds a new one.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Beneath It All

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme for this prompt: ["Character A jerking off over character B whilst either smelling some stolen clothes or sitting in their room/bed (without character B knowing ofc)"](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=267996)
> 
> I saw this prompt and immediately knew I had to write something for it. So thank you to the OP for the excellent prompt!
> 
> Please mind the tags!

Steam unfurls from within the teacup, dissipating in the air in soft, gentle curls. Delicate, like Mercedes’ quiet humming as she pours the tea and sets the pot down. She sits across the table from Marianne, a smile on her face as the late summer breeze stirs her short hair. “There, that should do it!” she says. “Perfectly steeped - oh, but be careful, I think it’s still a little hot.” 

Marianne smiles back, a little more restrained. She lifts her cup and saucer and breathes in the aroma of the tea. It’s fruity, sweet; something they’ll both like, and it mingles pleasantly with the lavender fragrance floating about the room. It wafts on the breeze from the flowers on Mercedes’ sill, from the clothes she wears now, from yesterday’s dress laid out on her bed. 

It’s easy to get lost in it all. The smells, the warmth of the sunlight through the window, the sound of Mercedes telling a story about her recent trip to the market. It’s jarring, then, when a heavy hand slams against the door, Annette’s voice crashing in through it and shattering the calm. 

_“Mercie, Mercie! Come quick, there’s been an accident! Felix--”_

“Coming, Annie!” Mercedes stands, brushing biscuit crumbs from her skirt. She gives Marianne a withering, exasperated smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she does truly sound apologetic. “This should only take a moment. Please, feel free to wait here - just don’t eat all the cookies while I’m gone!” 

She giggles, and Marianne has to look away to hide the warm blush that spreads across her face. “Of course,” she says, voice quiet and small as it was back in their student days. “I-if you’re sure you don’t mind…”

“Nonsense! I invited you here; it would be rude of me to shoo you out only to ask you to come back a moment later. Now…”

She turns, right as Annette pounds on the door again. “ _Mercie--!_ ” 

“Coming!” She giggles again, winks at Marianne, and hurries to the door. Marianne watches as she closes it behind her, and hardly hears Mercedes ask what the problem is over the sudden realization that she is alone in Mercedes’s room. 

_Alone_. 

She fidgets in her seat, suddenly overwhelmed. The birdsong outside the window does nothing to calm her nerves, as it usually might. She is not trapped, there’s nothing in here to hurt her - for _her_ to hurt - and yet still, her stomach turns over itself as she lets her eyes roam the room. 

Marianne is no stranger to these feelings. She recognizes _affection_ when it comes to her, and knows that her quiet fantasies of being gathered up in Mercedes’ arms and held tight to her chest are not just the result of a lack of touch in her own childhood. In her fantasies, in her dreams, Mercedes strokes her cheek, tells her everything will be okay, kisses her gently and lays the both of them down together on her bed (always Mercedes’ bed, somehow; always her soft sheets and extra knitted blanket). And sometimes, when she lets herself indulge in these fantasies, there’s more: the kisses turn hungry, Mercedes’ hands tighten at her back, her collar, in her hair; Marianne’s head falls back as she feels a tongue against her neck, a fingertip between her legs, and then more, more--

She doesn’t mean to get carried away this time. Marianne hardly even notices her eyes have fluttered shut and her legs have clamped together until she feels her own teeth sink into her lip. Her eyes fly open as she startles, and she’s reminded, suddenly, of how close she is to the bed. 

She glances at the door. How long has Mercedes been gone? 

How long until she returns? 

Marianne has always taken great pride in her restraint. In her ability to be presented with temptation and refute it, no matter how badly she may want to say or do something bad, to hurt someone else, to indulge in her worst ideas. She’s always known better. Has always _feared_ better. 

But even she has her limits. 

Slowly, she stands, hands and legs shaking as she moves toward the bed. The room is so warm, so cozy, so overwhelming in how much Mercedes’ mark has been left upon it. Crumbs on the floor, sewing projects scattered on the desk, laundry neatly folded to be put away, or old clothes set into a basket near the foot of the bed. 

Marianne’s foot nudges that basket as she sits atop Mercedes’ comforter. She takes a deep, quaking breath through her nose, the scent of lavender perfume stronger here, lingering in the clothes Mercedes had worn yesterday. 

Heart pounding in her chest, Marianne lays down, half her body on the bed while her legs hang over its side. She traces a hand over the spare blanket, fingers clenching in the woolen stitches as she closes her eyes and turns her face into it. She’s hiding - from the goddess, she supposes, as there’s nobody in the room to hide _from_ \- because surely something so indulgent, so _sinful_ , should be punished? 

She opens her eyes. Even despite the trickle of guilt at the back of her mind, Marianne smiles, content for the moment to be surrounded by Mercedes’ scent. But as it strikes her, again, what she’s doing and where she is, the smile falls from her face to be replaced with wide, fearful eyes and a quivering lip. 

She’s on Mercedes’ _bed_. 

Without thinking, Marianne rubs her legs together to ease some of the pressure that has suddenly gathered there. Her dress feels too warm now, too constricting; she wishes she could just tear it off, let herself… 

She bites her lip again, looks around the room, and listens carefully for any sign of voices outside the door. She hears neither Annette nor Mercedes herself, or even any footsteps - there’s nothing. So surely, she has the time to…? 

Marianne lifts her legs up onto the bed. She reaches beneath the skirt of her dress with one hand, while the other reaches, only half-aware, for the laundry basket at the foot of the bed. She wraps her fingers around… something - she doesn’t dare look - and pulls it up onto the bed with her, inches from her face, from her eyes, shut tight as if blinding herself will hide her from the goddess’s judgement. 

She sighs, the hand between her legs dipping under the waistband of her panties. She’s unsurprised to find herself wet as her fingers slide further, down through her labia and past her clit. It’s just so much, being in Mercedes’ bed like this, and clutching her… her…

Marianne’s eyes shoot open. Annette’s voice floats through the open window, followed by Mercedes’ heavenly laughter. She’s out of time. 

Panicking, Marianne throws herself from the bed and rushes back to the tea table, resuming her poise with her back too-straight and her skirts just a little bit rumpled. She moves to smooth them down, but then, belatedly, realizes she’s still clutching the fabric of - of Mercedes’ _panties_ in one hand.

“Oh, goddess,” she whispers, high-pitched and frantic. The voices grow louder. She doesn’t have time to go back to the bed and drop the panties back in the laundry basket. Mercedes will be at the door any second now-- 

So she does the only thing she can think to do and shoves them into her dress, opening a button to stuff them in her bra before hastily re-closing the open clasp. 

And just in time, too: Mercedes bids her farewells to Annette, and not a second later opens the door. There’s a little bit of blood on her dress, and Marianne’s eyes dart to it. 

“I’m so sorry about that, Mari - oh, dear.” She follows Marianne’s gaze to the bloodstains, and in spite of them, laughs and waves a dismissive hand. “And I was trying to be so careful, too! Oh well. There’s no need to worry, I promise; it was just a usual sparring match gone a little bit too far. Felix can be so aggressive, can’t he?”

She takes her seat at the table, smiling for all the world like nothing is wrong. Like her friend hadn’t been injured, and like Marianne isn’t hiding stolen panties under her dress. 

“Um…” Marianne fidgets, face reddening at the mere thought. “I suppose so…”

Mercedes giggles again and, blissfully unaware of Marianne’s secret, begins to pile biscuits on her plate. “But let’s put that nonsense right out of our minds. Where were we…?” 

The rest of their teatime passes by pleasantly, if uneventfully. And though she enjoys their time together, heart pounding against her chest when Mercedes brushes her hand as she takes the teacup to be refilled, Marianne is still relieved when at last the pot is empty and the biscuits are finished, and she is allowed to flee to her room. 

* * *

The moment she enters her room, Marianne throws her dress open, pulls the hidden panties out of her bra, and flings herself, naked but for her own underthings, to the bed. 

She whines as she clutches Mercedes’ panties to her chest. So much for her careful restraint. How had this even happened? A moment of weakness, a few of panic? And yet - and _yet_ \- the shame she feels at having stolen something so intimate, so _personal_ from Mercedes mixes with the arousal still aflame between her legs. 

She bends her knees, draws her legs up and spreads them wide. She stares at the crumpled fabric in her hands, heart racing and legs shaking, and still, she can hardly believe herself. Marianne has never stolen anything in her life, ever - has never even considered it - but… 

She bites her lip. Mercedes is just so _lovely_ , so _kind_ , and she smells so _good_ …

“Dear goddess _,_ ” she whispers, but quickly dismisses the prayer on her lips. The goddess does not need to be told of her sin before she commits it. _Better to ask forgiveness than permission_ , as so many have told her. Marianne has had plenty to beg forgiveness for - and yet the goddess has not struck her down, not for things far worse than indulgence, than desire, than love, or lust. 

But oh, she is going to _burn_ for this. 

The thought of that, the thrill of it - of her new secret, of the sin she has just committed and the one she is still about to commit - sends an electric spark through Marianne, more potent than any spell she’s ever felt or cast herself. And so, with a shaking hand, Marianne reaches between her legs and lifts Mercedes’ panties to her face.

Slowly, carefully, _savouringly_ , she inhales.

It feels as if every muscle in her body goes taut as the smell of Mercedes floods her senses. Lavender perfume, lightly-scented soap, a tiny bit of sweat. Something sweet and musky underneath it all, something so intimately Mercedes that Marianne loses herself in it as she inhales again, deeper this time. 

The hand between her legs moves. She tries to start out slow, to tease herself, but she’s already so wet from a mixture of anticipation of this moment, the anxiety of getting caught, and the sudden flood of arousal that hit her when she took that first sniff. It’s easy to slide her fingers through her folds, to dip them into her hole and spread her slick around, up and down, to her clit and back. Easy enough that her clumsiness in the motion hardly detracts from the pleasure; Marianne does not do this often, and so her unpracticed hands often end up frustrating her more than pleasuring her. This time it’s different, though, aided by what may be the most decadently wonderful scent she’s ever had the joy of inhaling.

She sniffs again, long and deep, and plunges a finger inside herself. Marianne lifts her hips, wiggles it around, and unusually soon, she finds herself ready to add a second finger. The moment it breaches her, she cries out, mouth falling open on the sound. A corner of the cloth in her hand slips past her lips, and she closes them around it, lightly sucking on the fabric as she rocks back onto her own hand. 

Normally by now, her fantasies would have taken the form of Mercedes leaning over her, kneeling between her legs and gently fingering her open. This time, however, Marianne pictures Mercedes above her, a knee on either side of her face. She imagines Mercedes lowering herself close enough for Marianne to smell her, to slip a tongue between her folds and taste her. And _oh_ \- as she licks at the corner of fabric in her mouth, Marianne twitches with need, her cunt spasming around her fingers for but a moment. 

She’s never done anything like this before, not even in her fantasies - never pleasured another person with her mouth, let alone another woman, and she is certain she wouldn’t be any good at it - but for Mercedes, oh, she would do anything. Anything to make her smile, anything to hear her gasp, laugh, moan. Anything to get her to comb fingers through Marianne’s hair and tell her she’s doing well, that she’s lovely, that she’s worth something--

Marianne cries out, hips jolting under her hand. She’s so close now, so wet; it’s easy to rub her fingers against her clit, and it feels so good, so good--

She buries her nose in Mercedes’ panties, thinks hard about her rocking her hips above Marianne’s face, grinding down on her nose, her lips, her tongue. Marianne cries out. The sound is muffled by the fabric, by her defiantly pursing her lips to stop herself, but she’s too late to really hold it back. She almost doesn’t want to as pleasure overtakes her, burning through her nerves, her veins, her consciousness like fire, like lightning. She comes, wet and messy, over her own fingers, staining the panties she still wears herself. 

And then she realizes, in the back of her orgasm-hazy mind, that _that’s_ what the scent beneath it all is. Arousal, heady despite how faint it is, clings to Mercedes’ undergarments. Had she…?

Marianne laughs. It starts slow, quiet, but quickly bubbles into hysterics, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes as she considers the absurdity of the situation. Here she is, masturbating in her own panties, to someone else’s panties that have also been masturbated in. And another so-called ‘holy woman,’ at that. 

She lets her laughter ebb away and presses Mercedes’ panties to her nose again, deeply inhaling her scent. Arousal washes over her anew as she pictures Mercedes in them, wet and panting as she fingers herself--

But no. It’s too soon for Marianne to go again, and so she will tuck that image away for later. The of Mercedes smell will not linger on her panties forever, and Marianne fully intends to make use of these for as long as she can before she returns them. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> And if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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